_THE ANTAGONISM OF MISS PIPER._
Miss Sophia Piper had passed that period of life popularly known on the
Monk Road as the matrimonial age. She had reached that second stage of
unwed womanhood when interest in material things supersedes that of
sentiment. She no longer sighed as she gazed down the stretch of walk,
lined with rose hedge, that led from the verandah of her Cousin James'
home to the Monk Road gateway, for there was no one in the wide world
who might desire to catch her waiting on the step. Bachelors,
especially young ones, were a silly set to her, useful only to girls
who had time to waste on them. Her time was too precious, and she
prided herself somewhat on the fact.
True, she had had her day. She well remembered that, and even boasted
of it. Off-hand she could name a half-dozen men who once would have
accepted the custody of her heart with alacrity, but she was too
discerning. The Piper standard on the feminine side of the family was
raised high, and he must be an immortal, indeed, who climbed to its
dizzy height. She was past thirty-five, and had no regrets. She was a
close student of the Bible, and brought one text from it into her own
life. "When I was a child I played as a child, but now that I am old I
have put aside childish things." She often quoted this in defence of
her industrious maidenhood.
She really felt that she had an object in life to accomplish, one that
was wider than personal benefit. She occupied the chair as President
of the Church Aid. For five years she had been the delegate to the
County Temperance Convention. She was also a regular contributor to
the religious columns of a city newspaper, and she held many other
responsible duties within her keeping. Then, her cousin, James Piper,
had three children to bring up properly, and their mother was dead.
This work, along with the superintendence of the domestic features of
his home, gave her plenty to fill up any spare time which she might
have had. She took a pardonable pride in her station in the little
community that knew her, yet above all she strove to exercise a fitting
humility of spirit.
Her face was a pleasant one to see, shapely almost to prettiness, but
growing thin and sharp-featured; though bright, smiling eyes made her
appear more youthful than her years. Her hair, smoothed back from her
forehead, was streaked with grey, and harmonized perfectly with the
purity of her countenance.
Despite her brave front and ever-abundant faculty to console others,
she had known trouble of a kind that would have crushed others of
weaker nature. From early girlhood she had been alone, her parents
having died within a year of each other before she had passed her
fifteenth birthday. She had no sisters, and her only brother had
widened the gap between them by a life of recklessness.
Tom Piper was the exact antithesis of his sister. A good fellow with
everybody, and liked accordingly; none too particular in his choice of
comrades; a spendthrift, and unable to apply himself for long at any
one occupation, 'twas a fortunate circumstance that Cousin James took
in his orphan sister, otherwise she would have had the additional
burden of poverty to harass her endeavors to sustain the respectability
of the family. Tom might also have made his home with his cousin, but
he showed no inclination to accept such charity. He was older than his
sister, and quite able to take care of himself, so he thought. He
secured work with a firm of timber contractors, and almost immediately
disappeared into the wide expanse of pine in northern Ontario.
Occasionally he wrote to his sister, and in his letters his big heart
stood out so clearly that even her strict code of propriety could not
stay the tears of sympathy which blotted his already bedaubed
scribbling. When spring came, and the logs had been rafted down the
river, leaving the timber men a few months of well-earned idleness,
Tom's first action was to hasten out to the Monk Road to visit Sophia,
and a very unconventional caller he proved to be. The rough life had
taken off much of his exterior polish, but otherwise he was the same
good-natured Tom, generous to a fault, and, therefore, blessed with but
little to give. These were grand opportunities for Sophia, and she
lectured him roundly for his loose habits. She told him that he could
have a good position in the neighboring town, and society more in
keeping with the ancestors of the Pipers, should he so desire. But he
always answered her with a laugh that echoed strangely through the
quiet decorum of Cousin Jim's big house, then he kissed her for her
advice.
"Never fear, little girl, I will never do any great harm either to you
or the family. It is my way of enjoying life, and I guess I am a free
agent. But keep on in your good work, and it will do for the both of
us. I have brought something with me to brighten your eyes, sister.
This will buy new clothes for you."
While he spoke, he counted out and handed over to her a large share of
his winter's wages. This always made Sophia cry, and she would forget
her scoldings for the balance of his stay.
As Tom grew older, tales travelled ahead of him, of his reckless
spending and his drinking while in town. Cousin Jim heard them first,
and he took Tom to task sharply whenever he met him. Then Sophia
learned the truth, and her heart was almost broken. She prayed for her
brother, and wept over him when he came to see her, and was rewarded
with promises which were broken as soon as her influence had worn off.
Gradually a coldness grew between them. Tom, obstinately set in his
way, and angry at the continued interference of his sister and cousin;
Sophia hurt by his neglect and bitter from the sting of his disgraceful
conduct; and Cousin Jim, hard, matter-of-fact business man that he was,
refused to extend even the courtesy of a speaking acquaintance. So
affairs ran along very unhappily, until, at last, Sophia determined to
forget that Tom was her brother, and henceforth she put her whole soul
into a crusade against sin, and Nancy McVeigh's tavern soon came under
the ban of her displeasure.
Nancy's place was four miles from town on the Monk Road, and Tom Piper
had found it a convenient spot for rest and refreshment, both going and
returning from his visit to Cousin Jim's. Sophia had often warned him
against the house, saying that it was an evil den, peopled with the
thriftless scourings of the countryside, and presided over by a sort of
human she-devil, who waited by the window to coax wayfarers in to buy
her vile drinks. Tom answered by repeating some of the good acts
traceable to Nancy McVeigh's door. He explained to her that the
hostess was just a poor, hard-worked woman, who reaped small reward for
her labors, and divided what she got with any who might be in need of
it. He also told of waifs whom Nancy had mothered and fed from her own
cupboard until they were old enough to shift for themselves. But
Sophia was firm in her convictions, and only permitted herself to know
one side of the story.
"No good can come out of that tavern," she had said, with a stamp of
her foot and a fire in her eye that forbade contradiction.
Through the vale of years Sophia never forgot the grudge, and when she
made herself an influence in the highest circles of reform, she turned
with grim persistence to the agitation for the cancelling of the tavern
license.
Nancy McVeigh, the woman against whom this thunderbolt was to be
launched, kept patiently at her work. She had heard of the efforts
being put forth, and often wondered why the great people bothered about
one of so little consequence as herself. She did not fight back, as
she had nothing to defend, but waited calmly, telling her neighbors,
when they came to gossip, that they need not worry her with news of it
at all.
Sophia championed her pet theme at the County Convention, and carried
it to an issue where she and a committee were empowered to wait on the
License Board with a strong plea in favor of the abolition of the
tavern. The three stout gentlemen who listened to their petition were
all good men who had families of their own and wanted as little evil as
possible abroad to tempt their boys from the better path. They gave a
long night's deliberation to the question, and then brought in a
verdict that they would extend Nancy's rights for another year. Sophia
was completely overcome by the decision, and straightway sought out one
of the Commissioners, a friend of Cousin Jim's, whom she knew quite
intimately.
"Why did you do it?" she asked wrathfully.
"My dear Miss Piper," he replied, "perhaps you have not realized that
Nancy McVeigh has a heart as big as a bushel basket, and we can find no
instance where she has abused the power which she holds. If we take it
away from her, some other will step into her place, and he might be ten
times worse."
Sophia brought the interview to a close very abruptly, and went home
angry and unshaken in her resolve; but an unexpected event changed the
course of her meditation. Cousin Jim was planning a winter's stay in
California for her and his children. She needed the rest and change,
and so did the youngsters. Their preparations were completed in a few
days, and the big house was closed. Thus the questions which had
raised such an excitement were shelved for a more convenient season.
It was in the spring of the next year that Jennie, Nancy McVeigh's
adopted daughter, brought her the news from town of Tom Piper's illness.
"The poor fellow's goin' fast, wi' consumption, and he's at the
'ospital. It was Dan Conors who told me, an' he said, 'Tom hasn't a
dollar fer the luxuries he requires,'" Jennie explained. Nancy's face
relaxed somewhat from its habitually austere expression when Jennie had
finished.
"The idee o' that lad dyin', forsaken like that, an' his own sister
gallivantin' about California. It's past me understandin' entirely,"
she remarked, as she fastened on her widow's bonnet and threw her heavy
shawl over her shoulders.
"Tell Will Devitt to harness the mare, and I'll go and see what can be
done fer him."
Nancy arrived at the hospital late in the afternoon, and was admitted
to the sick man's bedside. She found him delirious and unable to
recognize her, but instead he called her "Sophia."
"It's so good of you to come, Sophia. I knew you would," he kept
repeating as he clasped her hand in his. All that night Nancy stayed
by him, attending to his wants with the skill of a mother, and soothing
him by her words.
In the morning he died.
"I guess it will be the potter's field," the hospital doctor told her,
when she inquired about the burial. "He came here almost penniless,
and has been in the ward six weeks."
Nancy gazed into space while she made some hasty mental computations.
"What balance is due ye?" she asked, suddenly.
The doctor produced a modest bill, at half the current rate, amounting
to twenty-five dollars. It meant a good week's business out of Nancy's
pocket, but she paid it without objection. "I want the body sent to my
tavern out on the Monk Road, sir, and ye can complete all arrangements
fer a decent Christian funeral, an' I'll pay all the expenses," she
said, before leaving. She went to the telegraph office and left
instructions to wire to all the known addresses of Miss Sophia Piper;
then, satisfied with her day's work, she hurried home.
The tavern bar was closed during the two days while the body lay in the
little parlor, and callers came and went on tiptoe, and spoke only in
whispers. A steady stream of roughly dressed people, river-men and
their friends, struggled over the four miles of snowy road to pay their
last respects to the dead, and some brought flowers bundled awkwardly
in their arms.
The night preceding the funeral, two great, long-limbed fellows,
wearing top-boots, came stumbling into the tavern, more noisily because
of their clumsy efforts at gentleness. Nancy knew them as former
friends of Tom Piper, so she led them in at once. The men took the
limit of the time usually spent there, and yet they were loath to go,
and Nancy guessed that they had something further to say but scarcely
knew how to commence. She encouraged them a little, and finally one
spoke up.
"Ye see, Mistress McVeigh, Tommy wus one o' the boys, an' a pal o'
ours, an' we hate to see ye stuck for the full expenses o' this
funeral. God knows we owe him plenty fer the generous way he stayed by
his mates, an' we don't want him receivin' charity from no one. We had
a meetin' o' the lot o' us down town las' night, and every man put in
his share to make Tom right with the world. We've got fifty-five
dollars here, and we want ye to take it."
The men counted out the money on the table, silver and bills of small
amounts, until it made quite an imposing pile, then they placed a piece
of paper upon it, with the words, written very badly, "For Tommy, from
his pals."
They looked towards Nancy, and her averted face was wet. She did not
sob, yet tears were streaming down her cheeks.
Sophia Piper was home in ten days, having received a message after
considerable delay. The resident minister met her at the station and
comforted her as well as his kindly soul knew how. He told her all the
circumstances connected with the death and burial of her brother, and
took particular pains to place Nancy McVeigh's part in it in its true
light, as he had a warm spot in his heart for the old tavern-keeper.
They drove together out to the home of Cousin Jim, where the servants
had opened the house in preparation for their coming. The
weather-stained gable of Nancy McVeigh's tavern, like some old familiar
face, came into view by the way, and Sophia asked to be set down at the
door.
Nancy, tall, angular and sympathetic, walked into her parlor to meet
her guest.
The minister did not stay, but left them together, the younger woman
sobbing on the breast of the older, who bent over and stroked the
troubled head softly.